Minutes Become Hours
by aethershine
Summary: What goes through an emotionless killer's mind when he murders his brother?


"Don't."

My weapon is pointing at his face. He is raising the book, making it a barrier. He is staring directly into my eyes when the book becomes a complete obstruction between us.

My mind is blank.

He continues to bait me, preparing his weapon to fire.

I pull the trigger.

Flash.

Errol slumps backward. Paper flutters round me, falling like sparks with wings.

My mind is blank.

'I assume you dream, Preston.' His words return to me. Or am I hearing them for the first time?

Seconds become minutes…minutes become hours.

'You always knew.'

Did I?

For years we have been partners. How long had it been since he ceased his dose? I hadn't known with Viviana. Errol was my brother.

I mean my partner.

What just happened?

I killed my brother. I lifted my gun, pointed it at his face, and fired.

How did I do that?

I look at the ground.

A memory returns:

"Hello, John."

"Errol." I survey the scene. He is in the hospital after sustaining several high caliber gunshots to the abdomen. I received a call yesterday updating me on his condition, and as he had worsened, I decided that it was best to go check on him myself. His face is pale and yellow. There are two large bags of fluids, one clear and one yellow, hanging over his head with lines running into both arms. The sound of monitoring equipment is beeping in rhythm with his heart and breath. Every so often the hiss of a blood pressure cuff can be heard pumping up and releasing.

"How are Viviana and the children?" Errol asks, working to focus on my face.

"They are well. They send their thoughts."

Errol gets an odd look on his face. He seems to be smirking. Painkillers.

"And how is your leg? I assume that you are healed."

"I am back to full capacity. Viviana is an excellent nurse. I believe they may have missed it during her aptitude testing, but it is likely she would have faired well in the medical department. It doesn't matter of course, because I know that she enjoys working at the school."

"Enjoys?" Errol raises an eyebrow.

I stare hard into his eyes. He is smirking again. I let it go because he suddenly takes a sharp intake of breath.

"Errol." I move closer to the side of his bed. Pain is registering on his face. I know the look well. I survey the bed, looking for a call button.

"John…" Errol manages weakly. "I've dropped the button that controls my morphine dose."

I look around the blankets. I feel nauseated and have begun to sweat.

Odd.

I can't find the button. I hear him take another sharp breath. I experience a sense of urgency, and my nausea worsens.

What is wrong with me?

Finally, after what seems like forever, I find the button and press it. At first nothing happens, but then Errol's breathing slows, and his body relaxes. It is then that I realize that my heart rate has increased slightly while looking for the button.

What is going on?

"Thank you John."

"You are welcome," I say absently. I am absorbed in wondering why the physical symptoms that I have just experienced are slowly abating. He is looking at me through half-lidded eyes. He takes a deep breath and sighs.

"And thank you for saving my life the other day. If you had not stepped into the picture at the right moment, you would be in the morgue witnessing my cremation instead of standing at my bedside. I am grateful." He slurs this last sentence. I let go the admission of feeling, as it is clear that the morphine is affecting him.

"I did nothing that you would not have done for me. You are my partner. It is part of our job as clerics to protect one another. Resources are too tight…there are too few of us to lose one from our numbers."

"Yes, partners…brothers," he mumbles, his eyes closing. I ponder this last statement. My parents are both gone, incinerated for sense offense. It happened when I was six, so there wasn't a sibling made from their DNA. I think of Robbie and Lisa. I try to picture how they relate to one another. Nothing in particular stands out. I try to see Errol as my brother. I conjure only images of our being partners. I consider the possibility that the relationship is the same.

"Errol," I begin. But he is asleep. I stand there for a few more moments. I look at his face, the face that I see more than anyone else's. Something doesn't seem right. I cannot decide if the problem is with him or with me. And then the truth occurs to me.

He may die.

A chill goes through me.

Back to the present:

I catch movement in my peripheral vision to the left. I look up and see Brandt standing in the doorway. He looks coolly at me, but I sense a heightened state in him. Part of me takes note of this, but the larger part of me is focused on Errol.

I just killed Errol.

There is dead stillness inside of me. I suddenly realize how physically cold I am. It seems as if my hands and feet have gone numb. I wonder how I could have just pulled the trigger with my fingers so cold that I cannot even feel them. The thought crosses my mind that maybe I didn't, and I gaze again at Errol's still form. There is a bullet hole in his throat. Something turns over in the back of my mind…a sense that I have forgotten something terribly important. There is a fluttering in my chest, like birds trapped in a cage.

What is going on?

I look at the ground, and then I turn and walk out, barely conscious of my footfalls on the broken floor of the church.


End file.
